HELP... P-Piglet! (ME)

Warning: 

This highly intellectual literary allusion will escape you if you didn't spend hour after hour watching Winnie the Pooh videos with your toddler.

 But for those of you who did...

The rain rain rain 

came down down down

in rushing, rising rivulets...

We've been at it since yesterday,  and the today was more of the same. 

Tomorrow isn't looking so good, either

Now, I don't know what you do when you feel like a rained in P-Piglet,

 but I like to hunker down and scrounge around for something to eat. 

That's because in the Hundred Acre Woods, I'm actually more of a Pooh.  So much so, in fact, that I have to find something to keep myself occupied, lest Pooh get stuck in a tight place.

So here's what I've been occupying myself with this time. It's some of that small stuff that I'm sweating for the summer.   Have I ever mentioned that I like to buy random  junk at the ReStore  and make it into other junk?

Yeah, I think I have.

  

The random junk  

1 gold plastery dish thing  $.50

1 glass shade thing    $.75

1 votive holder

(Yes, I know there are 3 votive holders. They came as a set.)  I didn't pay anything for them.  The ReStore lady threw them in for free because, in her words,  "You buy so much  junk here." 

I'm not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or not... 

But anyway....

It all ended up looking like this, which is quite cloche-y, don't you think?

Sorry. Rainy days = lousy pictures.

I used E-6000 epoxy on the glass parts and some Heirloom White spray paint on the stand.  Oh sure, it's not perfect, but when I put it next to the real deal, it looks cloche enough.  Not too shabby for $1.25.

Of course, what I'm putting in it, I'm not sure yet.
 I'm still in the trial and error stage.

I'm thinking something summery for my mantel,
 probably with seashells.

But then again, I might just go all Pooh Bear and do something like this.  

Nah. Just kidding.

Willy, nilly, silly old bear...

So what do you do to occupy yourself
 when the rain rain rain
comes
down down down?

Put Down The Paint Brush and Nobody Gets Hurt

OK folks, I might as well say this right up front:  This is not going to be one of those warm and fuzzy posts. It's not intended to make you think,  make you cry, or make you laugh.  On the jibber- jabber scale, it doesn't even rise to the level of a yakabout.

This is what might be called a blog irk. I'm only writing it because I'm hot and irritated and probably a little hormonal, and it seemed like a healthy alternative to heading to Baskin Robbins.

Do you know what I've been doing for the past week? 

I have been on the hunt for some vintage dining room chairs.

Actually, I've been on this hunt for about two years now, ever since I refinished the rest of the furniture in my dining room. I've been looking in earnest for the past week because I  earnestly want to buy them.

As in, now.

You see, all year, we squirrel away cash to use on our anniversary. We keep it in this little coffee can we call The Untouchable.

 (We learned to do that the hard way, through too many years of famine.)

Since this was our 29th anniversary, and the traditional gift for that year is furniture, we decided to do something different. We decided to add our Untouchables to the "chair fund" that I've also been squirreling away and  buy those dining room chairs.

Woooohoooooo, right?

Yeah, well, it wasn't that easy.

We spent the night in Savannah and got up raring to go on Monday morning.  We hit every conceivable store in the city, and then we headed home, stopping at vintage stores and malls along the way.

Did we find vintage dining room chairs?

Well, yes, we found them.  The problem was that every set of chairs in the style we liked had already been subdivided and painted into colorful pieces of occasional whimsy.

Oh sure, there were still some complete sets out there.  Had we been looking for sky blue chalk paint with chevron print cushions, we could have found it.  Fuddy Duddies that we are, we weren't looking for that. We were looking for simple red mahogany chairs...the kind that stand the test of time.

Those, we could not find, and that's why I'm irked this morning.

In fact, I'm just a little irked at the whole overdose of painted furniture out there in general.  Yes, I realize this is not going to be a popular opinion in blogville, but it's my opinion nonetheless.

Not long ago, the painted pieces would catch my eye in the vintage booths. They stood out as different and creative. Now, it's a chalk painted jungle out there. Honestly, in all my years of trend watching and fad following, I have never seen anything go gangbusters like the current painted furniture craze. 

That's what it is, after all, a craze.  It erupted way too quickly to be anything else. When something consumes the market the way painted furniture has, what you have is neither a style nor a trend.
It. is. a. craze. 

That's not to say that I dislike it. I don't. I actually like the look of it.  I admire the artisans and bloggers who have made paint techniques so popular. I have some pieces I'm planning to paint here at my own home. 

It's nothing new, after all. We had a lot of painted furniture in my home growing up.

I realize there are many twenty- somethings out there who do not know this, but your grandmothers already did the paint technique thing. They did it back in the '70s, during the last recession; They called it antiquing... a little paint followed by swipes of darker glazing.

Raise your hand if you remember...

I have no problem with that. In fact, had it not been for the antiquing fad of the '70s, I would never have learned to refinish furniture in the '80s. (Something tells me I'm going to be very busy about ten years from now, too...)

My problem isn't with the painting. It's with the gobbling.  Because they are willing to paint just about anything, just about everything is getting painted.

Faster than you can blink. .

 And folks, not everything ought to be painted. Not everything increases in value with a coat of paint. In fact, sometimes just the opposite is true.  I wish Generation Paint would slow down for a pair of minutes. I wish they would leave a few untouchables in their original glory.

 Save the whimsy for that mid-century modern blonde veneer. Turn that dark '70s pine into something colorful and cottagey. Do whatever you want to '80s oak... I have plenty to sell you if you want it.  But please... please... could you leave the Chippendale alone?

And that, as unpopular as it is, is all I have to say about that.

A Cord of Three Strands

Listen up, folks.

 Did you know?

According to holidayinsights.com, 

June 23rd is

National Pink Day!  

Yesiree, a whole day just to celebrate my very favorite color.   

I couldn't be happier to celebrate it, either. 

I'm positively tickled pink!

According to those experts on all things holiday, no research as been able to determine exactly who started this very pink holiday, exactly why it was started, and exactly when.  All they know is that regardless of the day of the week upon which it falls, National Pink Day is always celebrated on June 23rd. 

Now, the rest of you may have your own opinions and theories,

 but this morning, I would like to present  mine.    

On this day, June 23rd, 1984... 

I report. You decide.

Of all the gifts that God has given me,
this guy is my second favorite.

By the way,
do you know the FIRST?

Two are better than one, because they have good return for their labor. If either of them falls down, the other can help him up. Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help him.  If two lie down together, they will keep warm, but how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend. 

A cord of three stands, it is not easily broken. ~Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

*****

Comments off for Sunday, 

but I hope this day,

more than ever, 

 finds you in the pink. 

Summer... Bummer

 Well folks, I did my best to stop it, but it's here anyway.

  Just in case you haven't noticed, today is  June 21st, 

the most un-wonderful day of the year.

It's the first day of summer. 

I hate summer. 

Ok, maybe hate is too strong a word. I hate liver.  Summer, on the other hand, is more like a green bean.  I can stomach it, but I don't enjoy it.   I just endure it until it's off my plate.

That's because I live in south Georgia. Do you know what summer looks like in south Georgia?

This. 

With regularity. 

As a younger woman, it didn't bother me.  I was a school teacher after all. Summer meant two things: time off and tan on. (I was all about the suntan back in the day, and I have the wrinkles to prove it.)  As a young mother, I enjoyed it even more. Summer meant adventures with the girls and lazy days by the pool. Yeah, summer was pretty cool back then.

Nowadays, it's just hot. 

Nowadays, I look at the date on the calendar and the temperature on the thermometer and snort.

Here we go again...

Last summer, I tried to *fix it* by creating a Sand Pail List of  activities to do while the heat was on.  It was a pretty fun idea and worked well until the unfortunate debit card incident turned into No Buy July.

And just in case you've forgotten, there was  August...

So here's the thing: While I was planning to do the whole Sand Pail List again, I have changed my mind. I'm fickle like that.  You see, as I made that list, I started thinking.

 I'm always thinking. 

Was there a single adventure on that list that couldn't be done, and more  pleasantly so, in the fall? 

Why no, there wasn't.  

I'm not teaching anymore, and the nest is empty.   I have just as much time for adventure in the fall as I do in the summer, and I can do it all without sweat stains. If orange can be the new pink, and 50 can be the new 30, why can't autumn be the new summer?

 I think I'm onto something here.   

So this morning, I decided to dump the sand pail and leave summer fun to families with full nests. This year, I'm going to give myself permission to stay inside where the living is easy, and the temperature is a sweet 78.

I won't be taking on any huge indoor projects, either.  This summer, I'm going to sweat the small stuff and work on all those little projects and crafts that have been banished to the back burner in the name of grand schemes.

True, it doesn't sound as fun as picking Georgia peaches or going on a riverboat ride, but it's still an adventure if you give it a name. That's the rule. I know because I made it up.

I'm calling it Sweat the Small Stuff Summer,
 and the adventure begins today.

(OK, maybe Monday. I have something big to celebrate first.)

Can anyone relate? 

Or am I the only one in Blogville
with summer bummer syndrome?

Hoarding Hoards and the Hoarders Who Hoard them

Help! 

source

Folks, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but there is a whole new form of pack- rattery of which to beware.   It's even more insidious that the usual kind because it takes up very little physical  space. It's called e-hoarding, and apparently I have fallen victim to it.  In fact, I'm nearly positive that it was e-hoarding, and not just old age and fickle fingers, that ailed Della the Demon Possessed Laptop.

I discovered it  much the same way that one discovers any hoarding:  I opened the door. 

source

It all started Friday evening when the Man of the Place came home, plugged in new Dellie, and asked an innocent question:

Do you want me to save things from your old computer onto the new one? 

Why, yes I did. 

I had photos on there for one thing. I need my photos. And no, I didn't want to save them to a thumb drive at that moment. At that moment, I just wanted to get the new Dellie up and running.  He accommodated me and began to save them.

It took 11 hours and 30 minutes.

 No lie.  

I took this pictorial evidence about two hours into the project.

 Apparently, it takes that long to save over 17,000 photographs.

Oh, how I wish I were exaggerating like usual, but I'm not. I really and truly have that many photos. (And I wonder why I go through one shiny red Kodak a year...)

Technology has made it entirely too easy to point, click, upload... and save.  

If the photos were my only problem, it would be bad enough, but they weren't.  I have three email accounts full of un-deleted old messages as well.

And then, I have the bookmarks.   
Oy...

I have both Internet Explorer and Google Chrome, you see, and between the two of them, I had roughly  two million bookmarks.  (OK, that part might be a tad exaggerated,  but I still have hundreds... at least.)  They're all organized of course. I have them secreted away in tidy little folders.

 As I said  in THIS POST last summer,  however, that's not really organization. 

It's storganization, and it's still hoarding. 

I have folders for bill paying and folders for Bible study... folders for current events and folders for genealogical research...folders for teaching and folders for speaking... folders for decorating and folders for crafts.   Folders for recipes...

I started those recipe folders before the days of Pinterest.  (Another e-hoarding nightmare waiting to happen.).  Most of them have never even been tried, like Dr. Oz's Cherry Pork Chops.  I like cherries, and I like pork chops, but I'm not sure I would like them together, and I'm not even fond of Dr. Oz.

But there they were, storganized on the computer between my recipe for German chocolate cake and a misfiled youtube of Ronnie Milsap singing, "What a Difference You've Made In My Life".

The Practical One has a name for this. She calls it Crazy Pants. Folks, I stand here today in my crazy pants to make this full confession:  Hi. I'm Debbie, and I'm an e-hoarder. 

There. It felt good to get it all out in the open.

Since I spent last summer dealing with my physical storganization problem, I'm dubbing the summer of 2013 as the summer I face down cyber storganization and live to tell the tale.

I started purging yesterday, and like the true over achiever that I am, I spent  wasted an entire day plunked in front of the computer(s) trying to tackle the problem. We hoarders aren't really known for our moderation. What we are known for is a tendency to hippity hop down rabbit trails whenever we start looking at our schtuff.  Clearly, I need a better plan.

That's why I'm asking you to Talk Back this Tuesday.

 Are you an e-hoarder, or do you have a firm grip on your computer storage?  

Do you have a system that works for you?  

And while we're at it... 

I would love to know how you manage that

Pinterest disaster waiting to happen, too...

Dude!

I'm getting a new Della...

I have named her Dellie...

because she's a New Dellie, don'tcha know. 

She showed up yesterday afternoon, and I'm pretty excited about it.  Unfortunately, the Man of the House will not show up until Friday afternoon, and for some ridiculous reason he says it would be best for me to leave her right there in the box until he gets home.

I can't imagine what would make him say a thing like that.  

Yeah, well, yes I can. After all, I'm the one who baptized Della the Demon Possessed Laptop in the Coffee River. I'm also the one who likes to go off  a-googling and expose her to super viruses strong enough to penetrate that wall we pay for. And then there's the whole double click thing.

clickclick

That's why he doesn't trust me with a schmancy  Mac Daddy. If I'm going to kill computers, they might as well be the disposable kind.  That's also why it's prudent to wait for him to be home before I get my hands on  new Dellie.

In the meantime, I will continue to use old Della, but to be honest, I'm using her as little as possible.  Frankly, my blood pressure and her whirly swirly circlet do not get along. That's one thing that has been keeping me away.  It was either step away from the computer or toss her out the window, and I really didn't feel like replacing my window.

I've also been struggling with those UFOs I've yakked about HERE . I moped around whining about them for about a week and finally declared war with strict diet, exercise, and some creative body bracing. I do believe I'm starting to feel some better. I hope so. After all, what's the fun of having a new Dellie  if you are too achy to use her?

That's all I have for now.

I know that many of you hate it when I turn off comments because you love to tell me so. I'm doing it anyway. I'm sort of bratty like that.

I'll be back to share my Sand Pail List for the summer of 2013. It's a lot like my Sand Pail List of 2012... only not.

Until then...

Echoes of Savannah

So I've been adventuring in Savannah again. That makes two times in as many weeks, and I haven't even yakked about the first trip yet.  I'm sure you've all been hanging on the edge of your seats waiting.

This purpose of this second trip was actually practical rather than whimsical. It started at the  Savannah/Hilton Head Airport.

 Guess who's coming to dinner...

If you guessed the Practical One, you would be correct. I drove to Savannah to retrieve her yesterday, and this afternoon, I'll drive her 60 miles in the other direction to Augusta to be a bridesmaid in a wedding.

I have exactly one more day to spend with her.

  Soooo....  

In lieu of a post about my recent Savannah adventures, I thought I would venture back three years into the echo chamber and repost my first post about Savannah. instead. To the half dozen people still around who have read this, my apologies.

To the new friends who haven't,  

Welcome to Savannah.

If I'm asked one question more than any other about Savannah, it's this one:

How does it compare to Charleston?

Well, I love them both, and I highly recommend a visit to each, especially when kids are old enough to enjoy the history. They are similar, true, but they are not really identical.

I guess I would sum up the difference this way:

Charleston is a city with great character.

Savannah, on the other hand, is a city with great characters.

Savannah is full of legends, and it gets a new legend with each generation.

Spanish moss covered live oak trees line just about every street in the Old Savannah, whether residential, commercial, or historic. I’ve enjoyed just about every version of the Savannah tour, and the legends of the mossy stuff vary about as much as the modes of tourist transport. Basically, every legend includes a maiden, a suitor, and an unfortunate hair snagging incident.

In truth? It’s just an hairy distant cousin to the pineapple which may or may not be infested with red bugs depending on whom you ask. I personally wouldn’t recommend eating it or sleeping on it, but that’s just me…

The Waving Girl

Florence Martus was the unmarried sister to the lighthouse keeper on a nearby Island who waved to greet every ship, every day, for 44 years. During the day, she waved a white cloth. At night, she waved a lantern.

Legend says that she was waiting for her long lost love, a sailor who never returned from sea, but there has never been any evidence to support that. Personally, I wonder if she might have just been a little odd and in need of a hobby. Today, she would probably blog all about it.

Tomo- Chi-Chi’s Grave

If you believe the 4,789 Savannah ghost stories, you will not want to visit Wright Square at night. It's the grave site of Tomo-Chi-Chi, a Yamacraw chief critical to the settlement of Savannah. Actually, that monument behind the marker is not his grave site.

It's really this big rock. 

Legend says that if you run around his grave three times and ask, “Tomo-Chi-Chi, what’s for supper?” he will appear with the answer. I once took a group of 6th graders on the Savannah tour who insisted on trying to conjure up the hungry native. I have no idea whether he appeared or not. My eyes were closed.

The Olde Pink House

This is an absolutely lovely old home which is now a wonderful restaurant. The husband and I went there once on an anniversary. The thing that I did NOT like about it is that the restrooms are located downstairs in the historic creepy old tavern. During dinner, I ventured down there out of necessity, but could not turn the knob on the ladies’ room door.

So I waited…

and waited… and waited.

Then, I tried the knob again. It still wouldn't budge.

Finally, I knocked on the door, but no one ever answered.

Years later, I heard the legend of the Olde Pink House.  According to legend, it is inhabited by a mischievous ghostie whose favorite haunt is that very ladies' room. Apparently, women claim to feel someone touching their hair and blowing in their ears. Upon trying to leave, they find themselves locked in by a knob that will not turn.

No wonder I have a complex.
 I am the only woman of record  to be locked out
 by a dirty old ghost.

There are so many more, but this post is way too long.

 However, I probably should answer the other most commonly asked question about Savannah.
It's about this place:

Legend has it that this place is inhabited by a silver-haired southern lady
who is the biggest character of them all.
  Apparently, you'll know her when you see her.
She cackles… and then tosses butter willy nilly into every pot.

Personally, I think that last one is a bit far fetched,
but stranger things have happened in Savannah...

*****
(Possibly) sharing this tomorrow at Oh! The Places I've Been!

They Will Not Rest Though Poppies Grow

I'm ashamed to say that in the town where I live now, Memorial Day is nothing more than a three day weekend known for BBQ and retail sales. Aside from some flags here and there, it might pass with no remembrance at all. 

But  thirty country miles away,  my hometown remembers.  There, they mark the names of the fallen with crosses.  

They start on the north end of Main Street

and line the road every twenty feet or so, 

all the way out of town. 

Cross after cross and cross.  

Some decorated with flowers from a family member.

All decorated with flags from a grateful nation. 

On my last post, I remarked that the poppy was the traditional flower of Memorial Day, and  I shared part of the poem that inspired the tradition. It's among the Duchess's favorites, one she's fond of reciting on days like today.  In our home, it was as familiar as The Night Before Christmas.  It's a short poem, but one that I think is worth sharing ... and then sharing again...  because it's far more than just a poignant bunch of words.  

It's not a tribute; it's a charge. It wasn't written to the fallen soldier. It was written from him, and it was written to all of us.   

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place, and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the dead. Short years ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders Fields

Take up our quarrel with the foe

To you, from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high

If you break faith with those who die

We will not rest, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

I wonder sometimes how our fallen patriots would judge our torch bearing today. I wonder if they would find  us faithful. Oh, I have no doubt that they would be proud of the soldiers of the field. Generation after generation, the American soldier has carried the torch well.

But what about the rest of us?

There are two kinds of torch bearing, after all. There's the kind that takes it across the world into the desert or the jungle, and then there is the kind that is supposed to carry the torch at home. Have they found us faithful? 

The battle never has been against a people after all. We didn't fight the British, or the Germans or the Japanese. We fought an ideology.  We fought the freedom fight against tyranny and every form of -ism behind which it was trying to hide.    

Despotism

And  fascism and imperialism and socialism...

And communism...

And terrorism... and radicalism...

The list goes on.  Thank God the crosses don't as yet.

 The -isms change, but the goal is the same.

 They all seek to create a government over the people

 instead of by the people and for the people,
and create in that government a whole new god.

If we settle for it,

Or make excuses for it,

Or, God help us, begin to embrace it

and call that evil good, 

We break faith with those who die, even if we never set foot on a battlefield.

And they will not rest, though poppies grow,

in Flanders Fields. 

*****

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